Asia to Europe by Cargo Ship

Cargo Ship Travel: My Unusual Adventure from Asia to Europe

By Kaitlyn Fraser
Trading luxury for authenticity on a working vessel.

The Decision: Choosing Rust Over Rose Gold

Most people picture travel across continents in one of two ways: a cramped airplane seat or a deck chair on a glossy cruise ship. I chose neither. I booked passage on a cargo ship.

It started as a curiosity. While researching slow travel options, I stumbled across a forum post titled: “I Went from Shanghai to Rotterdam on a Container Ship.” It sounded like something from a novel—mysterious, industrial, a little gritty. The idea hooked me instantly.

Unlike cruise ships with brochures full of smiling sunbathers, cargo ships don’t market themselves to passengers. They exist to move goods—steel, electronics, coffee beans—not people. But some shipping lines quietly offer a handful of berths for travelers willing to trade luxury for authenticity.

Booking it was unlike any other trip I’d planned. There were no “Best of Asia to Europe” packages, no detailed itineraries. I worked with a small agency specializing in freighter travel, which meant long email exchanges about availability, visas, insurance, and very strict rules. They warned me:

• There would be no entertainment beyond books, my own devices, and whatever I made of my time.

• Meals would be simple, often repetitive.

• Internet access would be minimal and expensive.

• Delays could be days—or even weeks—due to port schedules.

That warning only made me more certain. I’d spent years hopping between airports, cities, and tourist “must-sees,” often without feeling grounded. I wanted stillness. I wanted to see the world’s arteries, the routes that connect continents.

When my confirmation email came through, I felt a rush of excitement—and a flicker of doubt. Four weeks from Shanghai to Rotterdam. No other passengers guaranteed. No pool deck, no live shows, no midnight buffets. Just me, a handful of officers and crew, and 10,000 containers filled with things people would soon unbox without thinking about how they got there.

Friends thought I was crazy. “Won’t you be bored?” “Isn’t it dangerous?” “What if you get seasick?” I didn’t have perfect answers—just the stubborn belief that there was something to be learned from doing things the slow, hard way.

Life Onboard: Trading Luxury for Function

The day I boarded, the ship was a forest of steel. No polished handrails or sun loungers—just cranes, ladders, and rust-streaked decks. I was met by the First Officer, a tall man from Poland with a firm handshake and a voice that carried over the wind. He handed me a hard hat and escorted me to my cabin.

The cabin was surprisingly spacious: a bed, desk, small couch, private bathroom, and a porthole framing the endless bustle of Shanghai’s harbor. There was no minibar, no complimentary slippers, no carefully folded towel animals—just clean sheets and the faint hum of the ship’s systems.

Meals were taken in the officers’ mess, a plain room with sturdy tables, a television permanently tuned to a news channel in the crew’s native language, and a coffee machine that sputtered and groaned with every cup. Breakfast was eggs, bread, and instant coffee. Lunch and dinner were hearty but repetitive—stews, pasta, fried fish. I quickly learned the art of bringing my own spices and snacks to keep things interesting.

The crew was a mix of nationalities—Filipino engineers, Eastern European officers, a German captain. Their routines were structured around shifts: four hours on watch, eight hours off. For me, the days were unstructured. I read. I wrote in my journal. I walked laps around the deck, dodging ropes and machinery. I watched containers being loaded and unloaded, marveling at the precision of the cranes.

One of my favorite spots was the bow. Standing there, the ship’s sharp edge slicing through the Pacific, I felt both tiny and powerful. The sea stretched in every direction, and the only sounds were the rush of water and the low thrum of the engines.

Luxury travel is about comfort; cargo ship travel is about function. There’s a strange beauty in that—knowing every bolt, every hum, every movement exists for a reason. And being a passenger here, I wasn’t just an observer of the journey; I was embedded in the machinery of global trade.

The Ports: Glimpses Between Oceans

Cargo ship travel doesn’t follow tourist schedules. Sometimes we’d be at sea for 10 days straight, and then dock for less than 12 hours. Port calls were purely for work—the loading and unloading of cargo—but I was sometimes allowed to step ashore if immigration rules permitted.

Our first major stop after leaving China was Singapore. The approach was mesmerizing—hundreds of ships anchored offshore, cranes dancing against the skyline, stacks of containers like giant Lego bricks. I had just enough time to wander through the bustling streets, grab hawker food, and restock on snacks before the ship’s whistle called me back.

In Sri Lanka, I had a full day. I explored Colombo’s markets, bought fragrant spices, and sat in a tiny café watching tuk-tuks zip past. I returned to the ship with sticky fingers from eating too many sweet pastries.

Some ports were purely industrial, with no tourist appeal—just warehouses, trucks, and security fences. But I found them fascinating. They were the behind-the-scenes world of travel, the places where the global supply chain revealed itself.

These brief shore breaks made me appreciate the rhythm of the voyage: long stretches of ocean, then a sudden burst of color, sound, and human activity, followed by the quiet of departure.